Imagine that

It was an early morning in early December.

I fell asleep on the sofa-something rare for me. My warm water bed was so comfy I rarely slept elsewhere.

I was awakened by my oldest son crouched beside me next to the sofa.

“Mom you need to wake up. John Lennon was assassinated last night.”

Still groggy from sleep I tried to assure him that it was President Kennedy long before his birth.

The tears on his cheeks jolted me wide awake.

The morning news told the story I didn’t want to hear. Murdered on the sidewalk in front of his New York Apartment. His wife at his side.

John was dead?

John, one of the Beatles. A formative benchmark in my life since age fourteen, was dead?

John, not my favorite, but nonetheless a songwriter extraordinaire, shot down by a deranged fan.

My tears trickled and my son tried to comfort me.

Memorial tonight at the Zilker Park Christmas Tree down town.

“We have to go mom.” Of course we would go.

Beneath the swirl of Christmas lights, holding hands under a forty foot tree,

we sang about peace and imagining.

And swirled together. Mothers and sons and strangers all mourning the loss.

Another icon taken. Only one of several in my lifetime but the first in my son’s.

He was twelve and in his brief life, he would suffer the loss many times.

RIP John -you too were too young to die.

Nancilynn